Another (deep sea fishing) song from New City Songster
Jim Carroll

The Deep-Sea Fishermen words and music, MATT ARMOUR

1. Come all you laddies, gether here, fae the country far and near
Come and hear what life can haud for you,
Leave yon slavish factory floor, close yon drudging sweat-shop door,
There are better things a lad like you can do.
And there’s no’ much pleasure now in ahint yon painfu’ plough;
Ye’ll break your back afore ye break the land.
We can offer you much more, of life off Iceland’s shore,
Come and be a British deep-sea fisherman.

Chorus.
Aye, come on, laddie, be a man, and seek adventure while you can,
Ye’ll find the fish off Iceland’s shining shore;
Man, it’s great, aye man, it’s grand to be a deep-sea trawlerman,
At a basic rate of twenty pence an hour.

2. ‘Now haud on!’, I hear ye say, ‘There’s sic a thing as bonus pay —
All the gaffers pay percentage on each catch.’
Aye, man, there ye might be right, but it’s clear as the Northern Light
That your first thin run will also be your last.
And no union can complain, for there’s nae contract in your name,
Nae security, nae sympathy, nae trust.
If there’s nae fish in the hold, or you’re hurt (or just too auld),
That’s the finish, man, you’re spent - you’re out - you’re bust.
(chorus)

3. But of course, there’s something more: you get three long days ashore;
Three WHOLE days in every twenty-one.
There’s one to re-adjust, and there’s one to slake your thirst,
And there’s one to key up for another run.
And it’s no’ much of a game for all the folk you leave at hame,
Tae weary and tae worry and tae wait,
Your wife’s baith Mum and Dad tae your wee bit girnin’ lad,
One seventh of their life is all you rate,
(chorus)

4. There’s nae sic thing as compensation, if you’re injured at your station,
While making profit for the company boat.
In the deep-sea trade the day, there’s nae sic thing as severance pay,
And the only handshake will be round your throat.
But if you drown up in the ice, two thousand pounds will be your price.
Spend that in your bleak Icelandic grave.
You risk your life, your limbs, your health, to increase the gaffer’s wealth
You’re a trawlerman, a labourer - a slave, (chorus)

Glossay:        
haud        hold
ahint        behind
sic        such
gaffer        boss
hame        home
girnin’        crying
bit        little